


Trouble

by derryere



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Boarding School, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10596828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryere/pseuds/derryere
Summary: They're roommates and Arthur's a little infatuated and a dick and stuff.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one's from 2011! And, if I recall correctly, coding this took long than writing the actual text. Was it worth it? The jury's still out. Enjoy the whacky formatting, lovelies.

_Boarding school comment fic: they're roommates and Arthur's a little infatuated and a dick and stuff_

here's always been something about being around Merlin that made Arthur that much louder--more violent, excited, punching him in the arm and barking out laughs, ruffling and shoving and pranking him into thinking the first party was fancy dress, exaggerating his amusement when Merlin showed up with a drawn moustache and a hat, clutching on to a friend's shoulder and wheezing, doubling over with laughter. And it's not like Arthur wasn't versions of that around everyone, didn't bully with a good-natured smile and an honest confusion when people got upset, didn't push and demanded attention and sulked when he didn't get it--but there was something about Merlin, something that set him off like a rubber ball shot off into a room full of glassware, frantic and thrilled to crash into whatever he could, making a booming mess of it in the process.

Second year Arthur had gotten stoned with some friends up in his room on the west wing--the Dome, they'd called it, what with its high, round ceiling, the echo it gave when they watched porn on the static little tv he hid in the closet, all of them pretending it was hilarious, that it was cool and sexy, and that they weren't as terrified as aroused of tits and cocks and naked skin--so they'd gotten stoned and the night ended with paint balloons thrown down from the arch window down onto the quad below. The splatters of colours that they'd made on the grass seemed brilliant at the time, genius, and they'd tried to stick to that state of mind when the next morning it was perfectly clear who was responsible for the mess: there was only Arthur's room facing the quad on that end of the campus. Shit, was Percy's wisdom when Arthur was called to the headmaster's pale faced and hapless. Shit and bullocks and 'Fuck, Artie. You're proper fucked, mate.'

esult being that over the Christmas break he'd been demoted to a double in Bab's Building, coined by the school's students after some mythical fellow who'd attended in the 18th century and did something amazing with the statue and and a load of food. No one really remembered. It was where the common students lived. That Arthur should now live there too infuriated him for a reason he couldn't quite name, and so his first reaction on meeting his roommate--not looking up from his reading, perched on his bed, telling Merlin to fuck off and come back later, he wanted to be alone--was a mix of undirected anger and the simple need to be a dick.

Merlin, in momentary confusion and automatic apology, quickly retreated and closed the door behind him, softly. He remained gone for about ten seconds, at which point he came bursting back in, shouting and suddenly indignant, saying hold the bloody fuck on, asking who the shit, what the hell, this was his room and if anyone was gonna fuck off, it certainly wasn't gonna be--

Arthur, for the lack of a better way to describe it, lit up. He hated Merlin, instantly, hated him with a loud voice and a mean disposition and a clear, luminous expression that focused all its toxic intention on the boy's every move. He hated him with an unprecedented devotion for a full two and a half days, until lunchtime, at which point someone down the table had cut off their staring match by knocking over a glass of milk--sending it toppling over Arthur's lap. Both Arthur and Merlin had turned their attention to the boy who'd been responsible, and both called him a variety of insults at more or less the same time. The animosity, on whatever grounds it was based, had broken, at that point, into something more suspicious--something careful and wary, testing.

By the end of the week, Arthur had loudly proclaimed his dislike of every single one of Merlin's LPs, especially the Leonard Cohen ones, yet proceeded to play them in the morning as loud as they'd go, waiting for Merlin go wake up as he smoked a cigarette by the window seat, cold but feeling kind of tough in just his boxers. Merlin would be groggy and roll about a lot, not waking up, and Arthur would eventually shove a foot to his ribs to push him out of bed--telling the idiot to wake up, they needed to go brush their teeth. He hated going alone to the communal showers. It bored him.

By the end of the month, at an unofficial party somewhere in someone's room, a small, chubby boy with an odd colour eyes and more freckles than hair--his name Arthur never knew, was never bothered to learn--said to him, drunken and friendly, that when he'd first heard of it he didn't get it, but now that he saw it it made sense, like. Sense what, like? Arthur had repeated, sarcastic and uninterested. "You and Merlin," he explained. Arthur's attention snapped back. What do you mean, me and Merlin? he wanted to know. "Well, just--like, everyone's like, well--you two show up everywhere together these days. Just out of nowhere, like, you two just--got. All inseparable like. I mean I heard it and I was like, nah, that's bullshit, 'cus I thought in my head like, that wouldna work, you're all not right, like. But now I see it, like. Makes sense. Yeah."

"Wha?" had been Arthur's stunned reaction. "We don't--we--what! That's not--"

At which point Merlin, on the other end of the room, put down his beer in favour of looking like he was about to puke, and proceeded to stumble in the direction of the bathroom. Arthur, instantly distracted, clambered to his feet with an "oh shit" and hurried after, steadying Merlin before he could bash his head against the doorway. And then, a short while later, on the bathroom floor--letting a pale and sick Merlin lean against his shoulder, dozing, thinking it again, stretched out and flipping in his chest, _ooooooh shiiiiiiii_ \--a bi-polar kind of panic, half warm and good half making him want to run off and punch faces, screeching blindly on the one end--silent, complete quietness on the other.

n early spring days, when it looked bright outside and the sun heated up their room like a greenhouse, spiking up to tropical levels and making it impossible to tell how cold it really was--Arthur turning on the little fan on his bedside table, complaining and not going back to sleep while Merlin still grumbled through it all, still slept, sweating under his blankets all through the morning--on those kind of days they'd laze about after classes, _during_ classes they'd skipped with a shrug and a smile, arrange themselves in the square of afternoon sun at the foot of their beds and squint at the light--pass a cigarette back and forth. Merlin didn't smoke before he met Arthur. Arthur had more friends before he met Merlin. And now it was lying on he floor and asking questions like, If you were a fish what kind of fish would you be?, Merlin in a tattered wifebeater and his school tie slung sideways, the collar of the shirt looking like he'd chewed on it when no one was around, Arthur with his button-up open and Merlin's mother was getting letters from school about dropping grades and bad influences but who cared as long as Merlin knew what kind of fish he'd be, what kind would it be, come on this isn't rocket science Merlin a cod a salmon a blow fish a whale a--

"A whale isn't a fish, knobhead."

A snort. A pause. Then--"Fine. Okay. Then--okay, if you could look like a thing that looked like a fish what kind of fish looking thing would you look like?"

"What about a fish that looks like it's something else?"

"You're shit at this game."

"A seahorse. Definitely a seahorse. But they're small though right? I wonder if they have bigger ones, because I'd like to be one of the bigger ones. Or maybe I can just be big? Can I decide how big I am? I mean, if I'm gonna be a horse looking fish I might as well get to pick how bi--"

Arthur would hurt him at this point, one way or another--a hand to the face, a kick, throwing something at him, and Merlin would make a weak effort to wrestle back--laughing at it with the kind of mild nature of someone who's been tossed about for a bigger part of his life. This would happen a lot, would go on for a while and neither seemed to need a reason to jump on the other's back when walking down the hallway--tackling, shouting "PIGGY UP!" before getting shaken off, before getting in the way of a swinging fist or slap or flat foot to the knee--or Arthur back from rugger sweaty and gross roaring into the room and with a leap onto Merlin's bed, against all protests, holding him down with homework squished between them and shaking his sodden hair out like a dog, Merlin writhing and laughing _no no no no fucking bastard aaah_ you're _disgusting_ aaah—

p to the weekend before Easter they tried a routine for brushing their teeth. Ten strokes upper row, ten down, two swishes of water, gurgle--spit, wink at mirror, toothbrush into holder, spin about the spot with hands horizontal at the shoulders. If possible, moonwalk out of the bathroom. Merlin couldn't get through it once without snorting out a laugh, spitting foam, and Arthur couldn't get the moonwalk, not ever, not even close. In the mirror Merlin looked at Arthur like his eyes were closing up into slits he was smiling so much, like the next thing he was gonna tell Arthur was so great it would come out in colour and light, and behind him at the row of sinks opposite Geoff was shaving his neck. He was looking at Arthur. Almost blank. The razor scratched over his skin as he raised his eyebrows. Looking at Arthur. Merlin didn't notice, took a breath to say something, and Arthur punched him in the arm.

"Man up," he said when Merlin clutched at the sore spot with an _ah!_ , taken off guard. "Pussy."

Weekend before Easter and Merlin got into a fight with some bloke when Arthur wasn't around, somewhere behind the football field, something about them not leaving him alone, dicking around, but "What did they want from you? I mean, what the fuck did you--" "Nothing, okay! Nothing, it just--sometimes these things happen, okay. They just do. Sometimes people are pissed for no reason. Let it go. Just--" He grabbed the towel-wrapped ice from Arthur, pressing it to his eye himself now. "Leave it." Weekend before Easter and Arthur had grown up in a house where it was mostly silent for sixteen years and now that there was someone around to listen, all the time just there to listen he can't get used to it, can't go to sleep and talks deep into the night with "Hey Merlin,"s, like "Hey Merlin we should get some cassettes when we're in town next time," and "Hey Merlin what kind of poster should we have on the door ," and "Hey Merlin who--" with Merlin, for the greater part asleep, humming back replies and pillow muffled pleas for Arthur to go to sleep, please, he's tired and they'll talk in the morning, please, "I'm so trrrd."

And Arthur, after a long pause in which Merlin had fallen asleep again, grumbled a quiet reply of, "Goodnight."

Weekend before Easter and Merlin was talking to his mother on the phone in the hallway, a hushed conversation and he hunched against the wall--forehead pressing to the brick, eyes closed and frowning, and the only thing Arthur could hear--sitting by their entryway, leaning back against the door frame--were faraway no mum I--!s, and I'm sorry I didn't--!, cut off by an inaudible reply from the other end of the line. It left Merlin quiet and tetchy for a long Sunday, rubbing his eyes red with unsteady hands, sitting by the window, looking down at shrubbery. Arthur was looking at him in return, standing by the desk, eating a sandwich, not knowing what he was saying when he said,

"Hey Merlin wanna come back to my dad's for Easter?"

And Merlin, letting the question hang for about five long minutes in which Arthur chewed and the both of them pretended Merlin wasn't hiding the odd sniff and hitching breath in the crook of his arm, eventually Merlin said--voice thick, face turned away--

 

"Yeah okay."

ut looking back he'd be able to say there was something in the air, say that it was Trouble with a capital T--but at the time all there was had been a bottled sense of excitement to be away from school, to be back home, to be thinking of all the bullshit he and his friend could get away with--drinking, staying up, hanging about town. In the car with Merlin, the car his dad had sent for him, he couldn't sit still--jiggling his feet, knees bumping up and down at a rapid pace until Merlin would stop that with a press of his own knee, a muttered, "mate," and occasionally, sometimes, a warm hand clamping at his thigh, sending his heart skittering up into his throat. Something was almost happening, he felt, and figured it was the change of season. Maybe growing up. Maybe seeing Binnie Hirsch who lived five houses down, first girl he knew with a C-cup, who was now two years older since he last saw her and who was having a party word had it and--wasn't it, still didn't feel like what was it and Merlin's hand was on his leg and he was so antsy it almost felt like anger. Something was about to happen, he was sure, like a walking into a furnished room blindfolded: you were gonna crash into something sooner or later.

And sitting in that car he can't remember if he ever told Merlin, even if it felt like he had, like Merlin must've known--if he ever told him about his father, because he did talk about his father, mumbled little sentences of begrudging, followed by curt shrugs and _whatever_ s, but did he ever tell him about the house, the history, the _money_ \--he suddenly couldn't say. It shouldn't matter, shouldn't matter, he knew it in the way lifestyle magazines and made for TV movies said it, money was _trivial_ and it wouldn't be weird but he suddenly wasn't sure, was even more nervous, angrier.

"Don't be weird though yeah," he said on a breath they were driving up the hilly incline marking the ten-minute distance from his place, after some hours spent playing gameboy, said it off-handed over the way of his shoulder--just a sideways glance.

"Um," said Merlin, giving him a weirdly amused look--a grin under a frown. "Okay?" And then, after a tense pause, "What is your dad like kinky or something?"

Arthur barked out a laugh. Then laughed some more, said, "No," and " _no_ , and laughed a little more. Merlin shoved at him, and the hand that had momentarily been associated with warmth and fingers and his thigh was just a hand again, and Arthur's last laugh was puffed out--a pent up breath.

When they got out of the car, when the driver pulled up the gravel path circling the grassy roundabout in front of the house, when they were finally there--when Arthur tried to not look for Merlin's reaction but found he couldn't, squinting into the shady, greyish sun--Merlin, in turn, seemed to take it in with as though pausing mid-sentence, holding his breath to finish a sentence. When it came out, that sentence turned out to be a shakily laughed, "...Shi _hihi_ iiit." Then, to Arthur, "Seriously. Mate. I mean--holy _shit._ "

Arthur, flushing a little and wanting to go for his regular routine, spread his arms and go, "Mi castle est su castle, baby!", wanting to do the ironically proud thing but couldn't--couldn't do much but feel chaffed, oddly embarrassed, frowning over it and showing it as vague annoyance--grumbling as he shrugged, "S'not that big," moving past Merlin with a bump of a shoulder.

"Oh yeah, no," Merlin continued, walking up to keep in pace. "Obviously I meant holy shit as in, holy _shit_ this place is tiny. How do you manage, really, it's--inhuman. Two people in this house? My god. Living conditions these days, right?"

The gravel crunched to the rhythm of their steps, the car was rounding the grass to park in the garage, and Arthur couldn't help smiling, shaking his head. Merlin ducked his face into his line of vision. "Am I right?"

Fuck off had been Arthur's general sentiment in return, but Merlin was still stupid, and a bit of a bastard about the money thing but nothing had really changed, it was all good--and by the time they'd gotten to the grand tour type-thing Merlin had gotten bored after five minutes and asked if there was food anywhere in the house, or whether they were too fancy for trivial things such as nourishment, and Arthur went right back to kicking the back of his knee from behind, sending Merlin tripping with a laugh and a "fu-hu- _uck!_ ", calling Arthur a bastard, pretending to be about to punch him or chase him down. Arthur took a skipping step back, grinning, and Merlin feigned changing his mind--warning, a comical _don't think I wouldn't._ It was all good.

ittle but confident in the house that dwarfed them, they heated up some frozen pizza and spent the first evening flipping through channels in the grand living room, going quiet with news of a Boeing 727 crashing, a fire in Surrey, a kidnapping and bad weather for the coming four days--sprawled out on the couch in silence, the glow of the telly flashing blue and bright into the shadowed room. Arthur fell asleep with Merlin's feet in his lap, pizza cheese down his front and his head tilted back--mouth open, snoring softly. He woke up with a start, a 'Hm?' smacking his dry mouth and blinking around--before realising it was the sound of a door slamming shut that snapped him awake. It took him a moment to recall, where he is, who, what, when, and then he decided that Merlin is sleeping with two hands pillowed under his cheek and that also, also his father is probably home. He thought about that for a moment, gently pushed Merlin's feet off him, went to say hello to his father. And hello he said, standing sleepy and pizza-smudged in the doorway to the study, and his dad said hello in return, asked a few questions, told him it's good he's back, stilted, Arthur wanting to walk in and maybe--shake hands or something, fucking anything, fucking poke his arm for a lack of anything else, really--and his father, papers in hand, looking exhausted and nervous, blinking a lot, balked at the hesitation. And so it ended with goodnight, just that, and Arthur shuffled back to the living room. He woke Merlin with an ungracious nudge, shaking him a little, his temper having quickly taken a turn for the nasty--hissing _come on_ and _wake the hell up, I'm not carrying you, I'm bloody not--_

Merlin woke up as he always did, deeply confused and unable to decipher words, and Arthur dragged him down a long hallway leaning heavily on his shoulder, white socks half off his feet and slipping on the polished floor. When they got to the staircase he managed a bleary "What?", and did most of the steps himself, holding on to the back of Arthur's shirt as he walked ahead. Merlin's room was next to his, a door between, a room he used to fantasise he could let a girl--a vague acquaintance--stay in, could slip in at night if she'd let him, and no one would ever know, by morning he'd be back in his own bed. Never mind that no one checked on him. Never mind that there were no acquaintances he could name. The imagery had been blurry and perfect at the age of thirteen--but now, in the light of a groggy-voiced Merlin slipping under the sheets with a dazed "thanks a bunch mate", seemed ridiculous--silly, childish, clenching in his chest in search for a definition he couldn't find.

xactly Trouble with a capital T, indeed, trouble that started with a warm hand to his leg, started before that, started with a bit of roughhousing and the accidental pushing together of groins when rolling about, once or twice, neither acted like they noticed or did it on purpose, earlier still with small fingers to sleeves tugging along or conversations that bled into emptiness because the subject's been over for an hour now but no one wants the other to stop talking or earlier, testing gestures of good will, a seat at breakfast, an irritated glare folding into amusement, annoyance into fondness, that first fight, the apprehension masquerading as hate and maybe even a glance across the quad--a quick thing, maybe it never even happened at all, maybe it never shot either one's heartbeat to thud for a second, maybe it's all up in the air and no one can say for sure except that it's trouble. Trouble with a capital T, trouble on the morning that Arthur wakes and the weather's brilliant and as always Merlin is asleep, head under the sheets in the adjacent room, the edges of the blanket under his clawing hands as he tries to hide from the flooding sun.

"UP!" Arthur shouts into the room, his mood inexplicably peaking into euphoria overnight in that way only drugs and teenage whiles manage to achieve. He hauls the sheets off with a single movement. He has decided they're going running.

"Nnnn," is Merlin's reply, grimacing, squinting, having a hard time opening his eyes. "Nnnooo."

"Nnnyes," Arthur argues, sits on the bed. "Come on," he says, lightly slaps Merlin's cheeks about while Merlin tries to bat him away, laughing softly, tiredly, sleep-soft hands curling around his wrists to bring him to a stop. Arthur's fingers still, momentarily, slipping. His thumbs, following a thought that isn't his, trace the line of Merlin's cheekbones--naturally, slowly, down to his jaw. Merlin blinks up, more awake, eyes a shocking blue with the slanting sun angling into the room through the high windows. It catches on his lashes, the sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. The tiny hairs on his skin. Arthur feels himself go weak inside. He tries to shake it off with being loud, swallowing it down and standing up and, "Up! You snooze you _LOSE!_ Up up on your feet, haven't got all day, up, up! _Up!_ "

And all that trouble, all that trouble spelling out--

T | R | O | U  
---|---|---|---  
for trudging as Merlin does, not running but dragging himself alongside Arthur--out of breath and wheezing as Arthur, used to the exercise and feeling useless without it, talks the entire way about Binnie Hirsch and the party tomorrow, that party that's gonna be amazing, that Merlin will have a chance to meet _everyone_ , Neil and Little Lexy, Tamara and Pots--Leo Potson, for those who aren't acquainted--and Merlin gave up ten minutes in, first with his hands to his knees and head between his shoulders, then dramatically giving way--sprawling out on the road, shouting out that he is dead, he is done, he is never getting up again. "Really," said Arthur, Really for R, for | Raises a brow, snorts at the ordeal and finishes his run on his own--meets Merlin back at the house an hour later, Merlin sitting on the counter in the kitchen eating ice cream from a cardboard container. He means to just call him a name, just call him a loser and take the ice cream and that's what he means, and so it comes as a surprise when he finds himself getting into a laughing struggle for the container and ending up between Merlin's legs, pressing close and messing about in reaching for the ice cream, one hand to Merlin's hip pushing away, pushing closer, saying "give it up" like he means something else, and Merlin twisting and holding it away, leg almost curling around the back of Arthur's thigh and | O for Oh, Oh no, Oh shit, Oh and pulling away, maybe too sudden, Oh fuck it have the stupid ice cream for yourself, Oh he's forgotten he meant to shower and off he goes leaving Merlin behind in the kitchen and Oh, oh god, oh god wanking off under the water spray, quick and brutal and shameful, so shameful, Oh the press of that body, the hips and the legs, the hands, the fingers, the ice cream stained lips he isn't thinking about, eyes screwed shut, _isn't thinking about_. |  For Unable to fall asleep on his own, that night, having gotten so used to babbling his way into dozing, to a steady breathing from the other side of the room and the off grunt asking him to be quiet, a distracted hum pretending to listen. He's staring at the ceiling, two arms under his head and tracing patterns in the plaster, Unable, Unable, tired but humming and kicking off the sheets with one irritated jerk of a foot--grumbling as he gets out of bed, shuffles to the conjoining door by the mantle piece. "Hey Merlin," he whispers into the dark, door opening without a creak--a smooth whoosh to the carpeted floor. "Hey Merlin you awake?" A thick pause is eventually met by groggy laughter, voice sandy when Merlin's reply comes in the form of an exasperated, "Without fail." Then, for emphasis, "Without fucking fail!" "Couldn't sleep," Arthur explains, pointlessly, padding his way into the pitch dark room--hands held out for chairs, bed posters, waiting to crash--stub a toe. He doesn't, though, he finds the bed and sits down, Merlin making space and shuffling over to the far end, Arthur lying back next to him over the sheets, right arm under his head--left close at his side, Merlin pressing like a furnace to the length of it. And without seeing Arthur can feel Merlin falling asleep again--falling easily, without effort, Arthur saying "Hey Merlin" and Merlin making a soft noise in the back of his throat that is not an encouragement but familiar all the same. Arthur is back to staring at the ceiling. His eyes feel heavy, knee slumping against Merlin's over the sheets. Morning comes with the two heavy bellies of the  
B | L | E | almost  
---|---|---|---  
Body and its forever Betraying qualities, light tinged pinkish through the beige coloured curtains and giving the day a dreamlike quality--blurring sleep into reality. Arthur is under the sheets with his arm over a warm belly and his face against the soft skin to the side of a chest, breathing in the smell of another person, of the damp sweat of deep sleep, rocking his hips slowly against the thigh he's curled his leg around--once, twice before waking up a little more, waking with a long inhale and immediately rolling away--blinking at a barely conscious Merlin and laughing a little at himself, saying, "Ah sorry man," voice sandy and raw as he adds another sleepy laugh, self-deprecating, rolling to his other side with the heel of his hand to the base of his cock. "N'problem," Merlin murmurs back, shifting behind Arthur, turning so their backs are pressed together. They fall back asleep not thinking much of any of it only to wake up with an L, | for L, the L, the big L or perhaps just the little one--that of Liking and Looking and the feeling of it tumbling out, too big to contain, stuttering into their walks and words and glances. L for when Arthur goes running and Merlin decides to go with again, half joking, half serious, trying his best to keep up but his smile slipping off as his face gets blotched and red with exhaustion, taking it almost seriously now and Arthur saying You don't have to, We can go back you know, more taunting than serious and Merlin trying to grin at that but too tired to--lips plump and red and mouth open to heave, not breathe. His slow jog comes to a stop by a tree, and he braces himself on the bark, slips down a little. L for that, L for Arthur jogging back to help him up, brimful with affection as he acts on a wayward feeling and holds Merlin by his arms, thinking L, thinking Lips, thinking of that mouth when he kisses it briefly--a peck on the mouth, like a friend thing, casual, like I Like You A Little and that's how I show it, adding a happy "C'mon then!" before starting back down the road, back into his run. Looking over his shoulder. Nodding for Merlin to follow. A friend thing. A friend thing that seemed normal seconds ago but now has Merlin looking frazzled and flushed, confused, a thing that seems to have slowly gained weight by the time they're back home--a trouble thing that brings them to | E for Evening, E for the quietly sinking sun and Arthur putting on a clean shirt, Merlin swallowing through a dry mouth as he buttons up his. Evening and Binnie Hirsch's party, evening and a thickening silence, the both of them walking down the street at the end of the driveway, Arthur holding a wine bottle for a present, Merlin with his hands in his pockets. The birds are loud in the high trees lining the road, the sky is spectrum of reds, and trouble sits on a fence as they pass by--slithering with for a few paces, intrigued, checking the time and deciding that almost. |  **A**  
L  
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**6**

 

 

 

 

 

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w i t h affection is that it sticks to your fingers even as you try to wipe it off on other people's sleeves as they pass you by that is meows outside your window at four in the morning hungry and in heat, curling its tail against the iron wrought fence keeping you awake that it tries to sell you obscure magazine subscriptions over the phone when you were just about to sit down for dinner that it outstays its welcome, bumming on the couch, eating from your fridge, watching the telly in pjs while you vacuum around it that it watches you eat that it watches you shower that it watches you sleep that you can't help but watch it back in the light that poetry calls soft slowly tracing its features like you haven't learnt them by heart talking like you're in a wide-shot love scene whispered and slow saying that the trouble with love is that it's too loud to be busied with at these small hours of the night -- _trouble, by Elb Uort_

| 

The party is barely starting when they get there, a sitting affair, Arthur introducing old friends as they all take their perch on couches and chairs. Merlin seems an alien here, a kid from another universe, out of place and unhappy, and something terrified in Arthur won't let him ease the tension--say something that would make it better, interact with Merlin more than with the others. But he doesn't, feeling contrary, feeling like provoking somehow, sliding up to Lexy (Alexandra Pope, seventeen and freckled, having shed her braces just a month before), catching up on each other's lives in low voices and small smiles--sipping out of cups, legs brushing, the insides of their lips stained purple with wine.

Merlin is on a chair, looking lost, and no one is talking to him. More people arrive, the party is louder now, music has joined the equation and at some woozy point in the night Merlin stops him outside the bathroom with a hand to his arm, saying, "Can't we--" stops. Swallows. "I'm--feeling kind of out of place. I don't know what..." "Just talk to people!" Arthur tells him, a little tipsy, unwell. "Just try! You're not even trying." He shakes off Merlin's grip. "Can't be around to hold your hand all the time, yeah? Just..." He makes a vague gesture at the crowd scattered over the hallway, the sound coming from the living room. Merlin clenches his jaw. Swallows again. Arthur stumbles away, back to the party. Lexy is waiting for him with more drinks, leaning against the wall by the music installation, a small smile tugging at her lips. They're thin, the line of her mouth freckled as well, and as they continue making slurred talk he stares at it for a long time.

The next time he glances about the room people are dancing stupidly where the coffee table was before, and Merlin is talking with Leo, sitting close together on the couch. He's smiling at something that was said, and Leo, friendly and perpetually wind-swept, nods enthusiastically, explaining with his hands. Arthur blinks slowly, redirects the burn in his gut to something else--cuts Lexy mid-sentence for a kiss, not a friend thing this time but a kiss-kiss, licking at her lips and slipping her tongue, letting her kiss him back and not liking it, trying something else and pretending, closing his eyes and pretending, but she's still shorter and he's still angry, and when he bites at her lip she pulls back--annoyed, saying, "Calm the fuck down, yeah," and trying to lean in again. But he turns to look around the room again, wanting to see who saw, and not finding what he wants. Merlin isn't there, and Leo is now momentarily alone--ruffling his hair, drinking a beer. Looking about, unconcerned. Arthur pulls away before he can even explain himself. Lexy tries to hold on with a, "Hey, what--! _Arthur!_ " But he just stumbles, snatches his arm away, tripping over his own legs with a "Sorry, sorry I have--to--I have--" pointing vaguely, almost knocking a drink out of someone's hand, apologising again in his hurry.

He does a quick round from kitchen to bathroom, suddenly worried and unable to concentrate, checking some bedrooms on the first floor--pointlessly, really, but he can't really think, his head heavy and heart high in his throat, feeling like he's just run a lot. Like soon there'll be cold sweat down his spine. Time isn't going quite right and he's outside again, the street dark now, walking into wheelie bins and bushes on his way up the slanting sidewalk. The birds are still at it, not as loud but deafening in the quiet of the night, deafening to his drunken, panicked ears, and he doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't find Merlin, doesn't know what he'll do if he _will_.

He is aimless and stupid, barging into the foyer shouting Merlin's name, looking through the kitchen, the main living room, shouting " _Merlin!_ " up the stairs as he sways his way from the one step to the other, taken aback when he gets to the top at the same time as Merlin walks out of the bathroom. "Merlin," he says, quieter now, but Merlin--red faced, angry--is already walking away. Arthur tries to catch up, reaches to grab his arm, but Merlin pushes and refuses, barking out a, "Don't--!" Then, continuing his march, "Touch me."

Arthur tries again, pleading now, "Merl'n I--! Just lis'n for a second to--"

"No!" Merlin interrupts, stopping, turning around to face Arthur. Arthur has to skid to a quick stop, balance wavering, movement too fast for him to process. "You--" Merlin continues, voice breaking, nostrils flared. He looks away for a flash, looks up at the ceiling, back to Arthur. "Took me there to--and you, you. And I didn't only, I actually--I--" He can't seem to find his words. He finishes with a thick-voiced "Fuck!", turning away again, and Arthur reaches out again to hold him there.

And again, Merlin wrenches away, again Arthur won't let go right away, saying, "Merlin," and, " _Merlin_ ," and, "Please. Please." He stops trying to catch up with Merlin. Calls out with a last, " _Please!_ ", making it as honest as he can. Making Merlin pause, too.

"I didn't..." he starts, but sees Merlin's back tense at that--sees him glancing up at the ceiling again, the tilt of his neck telling. He thought he had words, could explain himself somehow, but he sees now he can't--there's nothing but a blur, a mixup. He has nothing else so he reaches out yet again, tugs Merlin to him, to turn around, tugs him closer and Merlin goes, limp, tired almost, lets Arthur wrap himself around him--arms around his waist, pressing together, chest and stomach and lower still, warmth and scent and Arthur's heavy head on Merlin's shoulder--nuzzling up his neck. Breathing in. Merlin shivers.

"You're just horny," he says, bitter, hands light on Arthur's shoulders.

"No," Arthur says, muffled below Merlin's ear. But he is, Merlin can probably feel he is, but it's _not_ , not like that, he is but-- "S'just--" He talks to that skin, lips moving over it, miserably telling Merlin that, "S'you, mate. 'S..."

With two hands to the sides of Arthur's face, Merlin drags him away, forces him to look him in the eye--the motion sudden, fast, serious. Merlin looks wrecked, looks a lot like Arthur feels, and Arthur tilts forward--presses their foreheads together.

"M'sorry," he whispers, his hands fists at the back of Merlin's shirt. Merlin pushes at him. For a moment Arthur thinks he's pushing him away, saying no, but then it's a different gesture--stepping back to pull Arthur along, walking to his room, eyes still hard and angry as he glances back to watch Arthur stumble along, holding on to his wrist. Merlin wriggles out of the grip once they're inside the room, once Arthur is closing the door behind them, and then Merlin is quick and confusing and crawling backwards onto the bed, looking expectantly at Arthur, saying, "Come on then."

Arthur goes, stunned but full of longing, _horny_ and affectionate and wanting to show that, somehow, wanting to think of a proper way as Merlin shifts further back on his elbows--as he climbs after, graceless, hazy, breathing hard. Merlin wastes no time, hands tugging at Arthur's shirt, telling him to take it off, fingers skittering over his belly, chest, shaking and barely there at all. Arthur, heart thudding madly in his ears, sits back for a moment to wrench off his shirt, and then he's back--hovering over Merlin. Merlin who's trying to take off his own shirt, shaking so hard now he can't even manage it, getting his fingers tangled and grip slipping, cursing tight and soft and panicked.

Arthur says, "Here let--" and pushes at Merlin's hands, wants to do it for him, wants to help, but in doing so takes in Merlin proper--lying under him, shaking as though sick, pale and frightened and so unlike him, so far from what Arthur wants to make him feel. His eyes shut, his mouth tightens like waiting for a blow, and Arthur deflates. Clenches his jaw, swallows down a thick throat and gets off Merlin--flops back into the bed next to him. Slings an arm over his eyes. "Fuck," he manages, a sentiment exhaled more than said. His muscles ache. His chest feels like it's shrinking.

Next to him, Merlin sniffs. Arthur doesn't know what to do. They stay like that for some time. Merlin has stopped shaking, and Arthur's slipped his arm off his face. Is staring up, eyes dry but prickling. He doesn't dare to look sideways. Once or twice Merlin shifts, moves a little. Arthur can't. He's cold now, his shirt somewhere on the floor, but he can't. Dramatic thoughts lead him to think it's the end of the world.

"I--" he starts, a period of time later--a span stretching from either minutes to hours. It sounds loud and out of place in the silence between them. "I don't know why I--fuck things up. Merlin. I don't know what I--"

"Can we just go to sleep?" Merlin asks, interrupting him, voice raw and unfamiliar. Brimming. "Can we please just go to sleep now?"

Arthur doesn't answer. Merlin moves, tugs and pulls at the sheets, trying to get his legs under them--having a hard time with Arthur's weight heavy next to him. After a short struggle Arthur complies, moves, gets under the sheets as well, not wanting to go to sleep at all. Wanting to say things. Not knowing what. Merlin turns to his side, curls up, and in the dark Arthur stares at the back of his neck--at the tuft of hair pointing down his spine. At the shape of his ears. He feels miles away. The distance aches at him, _aches_ , and he looks away. Turns to lie on his side, facing the wall. The ache doesn't go away, only gets worse at that, and after a short while, a little mindless and a loss, turns back around. He stares again, breath coming short and painful now, and slowly--unsteadily--places a hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin tenses. Arthur lightens the touch. He just wants to explain. Merlin says nothing, though, doesn't move away and Arthur doesn't want that, either, hopes he can explain--hopes he can be close, somehow, touching his forehead to the back of his neck. It's barely a tracing of fingers, now, following the path of Merlin's arm down--over his elbow, over hairs on skin and softly cupping the shape of his forearm. Sliding to his wrist. Slipping his fingers between Merlin's--twining them. Merlin clamps around his hold, folding their fingers in. His breathing is shaky. When Merlin tucks their joined hands to his chest, Arthur shifts closer still, knees pressing to the back of Merlin's, back to chest, his mouth the the knobby top of Merlin's spine as he whispers a rarely honest confession of,

"You're the only one I have."

But a moment later, not wanting it to sound the way it does, trying to add a hurried, "I mean the only--time I've--" Merlin stops him by turning his head. Turning and suddenly bringing their faces very close, their noses brushing, the corners of their mouths, lips passing in touch when Merlin speaks a low, "Shut up."

He kiss him, then, Arthur's bottom lip between his--a long moment, all wild hearts and holding breaths--before Merlin adds a whispered,

"I don't wanna freak out. But I might," he says, softly nudging his nose to Arthur's. "'Cuz this is fuckin' terrifying. 'Cuz I've never kissed bef--"

Arthur kisses him this time. Kisses his upper lips, bottom, licks a little and Merlin makes a small sound in the back of his throat, high and sexy and the kiss opens up, mouths wider and tongues slipping together with a wet sound--and this time Merlin's answering sound is lower, grumbles in his chest, and Arthur can already feels himself going dizzy with it.

It's never felt like this, he thinks, drastically, decides with his sixteen years of age that _nothing ever_ has ever felt like this, for no one in the _world_ and now the pace is speeding up, they're getting hungrier, fear making way for hazier things and their chins are wet, raw with the scratch of stubble and soon the angle won't allow for more, so Merlin turns in their hold and winds his hands into Arthur's hair--licking into his mouth, liking it so much when Arthur sucks on his tongue--Arthur can tell, can tell by the way he arches toward him at that, the keening, the slow smile, the way he nips and bites at Arthur's lips in the quiet discourse of frenching.

They kiss, make out, they suck at each other's neck to the soft night getting lighter outside--the birds quieting down at one point before sounding louder again, the dawn chorus, the blackbird first then the robin, the whoots of the tawny owl before the warbler, the dunnock chiming in at last, six AM and the sun already well up on its way, by which time Merlin is softly breathing to the dip of Arthur's throat--asleep, Arthur, mouth red and puffy, pressing his lips to the line of Merlin hair, brushing them over his forehead, heart swelling with it--the fantastical notion that he might never move away.

For now, slowly falling asleep himself, he takes stock of little things that seem of great importance: the way Merlin keeps his hands warm half slipped below the waist of Arthur's trousers, something--Arthur will come to know in the years from now--he will always do, whether it's under a shirt or under someone's armpits, shameless, wanting his fingers to stay warm. The upcurl of his big toe to the back of Arthur's leg, the way it wriggles in his sleep, the occasional smacking of lips--the nosing up below Arthur's chin. The way he sometimes, in a dream of sorts, purses his lips in a kiss to Arthur's neck. Keeps it like that until his muscles relax. The unbelievable warmth of his body. The way he fits, the way he smells, the way Arthur isn't sure whether he wants to hit him or eat him or cling on to him like a panda--isn't sure of much at all but thoughts overlapping, words crossing meanings in turning into sleep, a tawny owl calling from the power line outside the house and the shapeless presence of Trouble, rocking its legless legs from his perch on the window pane, waiting for Arthur's breath to even out--his eyes to blink close entirely.

A goldfinch flitters by with a flap of wings and a shadow passing over the curtains, and Trouble takes a moment to let it sink--to rest, to have it be silent--before slipping away, down the drainpipe and over the gravel, in search of nothing in particular. It's enjoying the morning as it dawns, letting life take a breath, careless, before settling again, somewhere else.  
  
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End file.
